


threads that hold their bodies to the ground

by sparksfulltime



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparksfulltime/pseuds/sparksfulltime
Summary: “I gotta say, I’m almost surprised,” he continues mindlessly, blotting at his chest. “I would’ve pegged Kim Wexler, attorney-at-law, for a strictly pajama set kinda gal. Matching tops and bottoms. Maybe silk. You know, a lawyer in the streets and... well, also a pretty strong negotiator in the sheets.”
Relationships: Jimmy McGill | Saul Goodman/Kim Wexler
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	threads that hold their bodies to the ground

**Author's Note:**

> _a study in sleepwear._

The first few times Jimmy returns to Kim’s bed, it’s just skin on skin.

There’s Viktor and Giselle, a hurried re-entry of fiery hands branding chests, hips, thighs; searing touches slowly fading into fingers skimming across sweat-cooling skin, a tangle of limbs that feels quietly and comfortably familiar. 

There’s a half-eaten pie haphazardly tossed to the floor, whipped cream swiped across a wriggling torso as a bubbling, gasping laugh finally, blessedly emerges. Sticky skin curling up on top of damp sheets, soft kisses pressed to alternating shoulder blades in apology, adoration, assurance.

There’s a check made out to “Ice Station Zebra Associates” dangled in the air, thigh muscles straining against sheets, fingers closing around the fluttering slip of paper, its ragged scrape against skin echoing loudly in the quiet room. Uneven breaths eventually give way to sighs, hands falling from cheek to pillow as eyes slip closed.

//

As the weeks pass, a peaceful intimacy settles over their evenings and the previous urgency becomes a hushed contentment. 

Jimmy’s palm against Kim’s lower back as they maneuver around the kitchen elicits a soft hum instead of a rough shove against the countertop; Jimmy watches Kim’s mouth close around an evening cigarette and laughs at her bad joke, leaning back against the balcony instead of instinctively reaching for her wrist with a sharp tug.

//

The night he arrives home with a bag of takeout Thai food from Kim’s favorite spot by the nail salon, the apartment is dark save for a lamp burning in the bedroom, Kim cocooned in the comforter and surrounded by a mountain of folders. 

Jimmy leans against the door frame, holding the takeout bag aloft. “Tucked in for the night already?” 

“Hm,” Kim frowns at the document she’s reading, holding it closer to the lamp before her gaze shifts to Jimmy. “Got cold.”

“You are wearing a tank top,” he remarks, turning to switch on the living room lights and setting the bag down on the coffee table, socked feet shuffling to the kitchen for plates and silverware. He hears Kim shifting her way out of bed, papers rustling as she closes folders and pads into the room behind him.

He watches her when he turns, unconsciously mimicking her movements as she rolls her head and reaches for her Thai iced tea, leaning back against the arm of the couch.

“Whoa,” he draws out the word, utensils clanking together as he sets them on the table and motions to her pajama pants. “How did you ever get cold in these babies?”

Kim kicks one leg of her flamingo-decorated pants into the air in response, taking another sip of her drink and bringing both legs to stretch out into Jimmy’s lap as he takes a seat on the sofa. He grabs one of her ankles, gingerly rubbing his thumb over one of the faded, patterned birds before moving his hand to the arch of her foot, kneading small circles.

She groans, letting her head fall back, and they sit in silence for a few moments. Jimmy can practically hear the legal argument still knocking around inside her head.

“Where’d you get these?” 

“What?” Kim brings her head back up and blinks at him, confused, and Jimmy tugs on the hem of her pant leg. “Oh. Walmart?”

“Huh,” he says, releasing her to reach across the table for the takeout containers. “I like ‘em. Maybe I should check out their fall line.”

She snorts, accepting the takeout container he offers and motioning for a plate. “You might be out of luck. I think I bought these back in ‘95.”

“And you haven’t upgraded to the latest?” Jimmy brings a hand to his chest, feigning shock, then looking down and grimacing when he sees the smear of curry on his dress shirt. Moving Kim’s feet aside, he hops to the counter, tearing a paper towel and running it under the tap.

“I gotta say, I’m almost surprised,” he continues mindlessly, blotting at his chest. “I would’ve pegged Kim Wexler, attorney-at-law, for a strictly pajama set kinda gal. Matching tops and bottoms. Maybe silk. You know, a lawyer in the streets and... well, also a pretty strong negotiator in the sheets.”

Jimmy tosses the paper towel towards the trash, unbuttoning his shirt and hanging it on the back of a chair. Untucking his undershirt, he makes his way back towards a silent Kim, who has served herself a pile of fried noodles and is watching him, chewing thoughtfully.

“What?”

“You get it out?” She swallows and motions to the shirt.

“Eh. I’ll make it work.”

Jimmy lifts the takeout container again, pulling out a heaping serving as Kim’s fork scrapes against her plate. 

“I never really saw the _point_ in investing in pajamas, actually,” she says, twirling another neat bite.

“Mmm, yeah, I agree,” Jimmy says, leaning back against the couch and nudging an elbow in her direction. “Skip a step, why not.”

She kicks him lightly, rolling her eyes as she nestles her toes beneath his thigh.

“No, it’s just like...” Kim’s brow furrows as she sets her food down on her lap, looking towards the kitchen as if the explanation she’s searching for is just out of reach. “It’s just for me. No one ever really sees them. Or,” she jolts back to focus on Jimmy, wearing an expression that looks like she startled herself, like she almost forgot he was there. “Did see them.”

Jimmy tries to tamp the small spot of warmth he feels blooming in his chest with a bite of curry, his brain already formulating a joke about nakedness as the truest form of practicality when she speaks again.

“Also, my mom never bought me pajamas when I was a kid.” She nudges the handle of her fork, statement punctuated by the scrape of metal. “I slept in her hand-me-downs. I was always embarrassed at sleepovers.” 

Kim looks down at her lap, continuing to push noodles around, hair falling to obscure her face.

“All of the other girls always had on their pink nightgowns, straight from the Sears catalog, and there I was in my mom’s giant _The Who_ shirt and gym shorts.” 

Jimmy pictures Kim’s oversized Kansas City Royals shirt, swallows, sets his fork down. He feels as though he’s suspended above the moment, hyper aware of Kim digging her toes into the cushion under his leg, wants to reach out and put a hand on her calf.

And then suddenly she looks up, their eye contact immediately breaking whatever spell hung over the room moments before. She shakes her head, looking away as she picks up her dinner again.

“Anyway,” she starts, stops. “Pajamas. Not a splurge item for Kim Wexler.”

Jimmy does reach out to touch her, now, and after a moment she returns his gaze, cocking her head slightly to the side as if she’s assessing damage.

“So,” she rights her head, bringing one foot out from under him and pushing gently against his thigh. “How was your day?”

//

A week later, Kim arrives home from the gym to find a small bundle on her side of the bed. Lips already curling in amusement, she grabs the post-it on top:

_Home late tonight. Get sexy for me while you wait._

She sticks the note to her nightstand, picking up the first pair of pajama pants from the stack. Weiner dogs.

Kim sorts through the rest: kittens with sunglasses, bright blue leopard print, donuts peeking up from the very bottom. 

Her pulse unwittingly quickens and she brings the weight of her hand to rest on top of the pile, momentarily overwhelmed and almost immediately embarrassed at her reaction. She flexes against the fabric, fuzzy flannel creating a pleasant friction under her fingers, and flattens her palm again.

Taking a breath, she leans down to scoop up the lot, moving towards her dresser and opening a drawer. She begins to shift the contents inside, consciously clearing space for Jimmy McGill once more.


End file.
